Here and there through Ireland ... With illustrations ... Reprinted from the 'Weekly Freeman.'

Front matter

TO SEE THE CELEBEATED SCEHEEY of the BCOTE Tourists should travel by the most direct route from England IN THE §r00{xk $twm f uld tatting's Spiendid Fleet of First-class Saloon Paddle Steamers Sailing regularly between Drogheda and Liverpool. From Drogheda every Monday, Wednesday, Friday, and Saturday. From Liverpool (Collingwood Dock) every Monday, Tuesday, Thursday, and Saturday. Cabin Fare, including Steward's Fee, 10a. Tourists' Tleturn Cabin Tickets, available three months, 15s. ; Deck Fare, 4s. Fast Trains run at frequent intervals during the ■day from Drogheda to Dublin and the North of Ireland. Write for a Steamboat Guide. A. \W. Archer, Secretary ; J. Corry, Traffic Manager. Agent at Liverpool — Isaac Jandrell, Drury Buildings, 23 Water Street. i DR x s h: LiusriEnsrs. SWIT2ER & CO,, Ltd, Bold the Largest Stock of Superior Household Linens and Cambric Handkerchiefs, which they offer at Extremely Low Prices. .NONE BUT RELIABLE GOODS KEPT, PATTERNS AND PRICE LISTS FREE.

SWITZER & CO., Ltd., ■GRAFTON STREET, DUBLIN. HERE AND THERE THROUGH IRELAND. ET MART BANIM (DAUGHTER OF MICHAEL BANIM, AUTHOR OF " CROHOEE "' OF THE EILL-HOOK, ETC.) WITH ILLUSTRATIONS sr M. E. BANIM. REPRINTED FROM THE " WEEKLY FREEMAN." ©ufilin: THE FREEMAN'S JOURNAL, Ltd., PRINTERS PHOTOGRAPHIC VIEWS OF Wm&§ Mtmmi) Pttiixjttttks* _>IiJIWl[Illf©Il?8«- .^IRTISTIO SEEIES. LIST OF PUBLICATIONS. SCRAP PHOTOGRAPHS IN FOLLOWING SIZES- N|ACNUIV|S, 14 x II. IMPERIAL, II x 8}. ROYAL, 8x6. CABLETS, 6i x 4i Opaline Views. Medallion Views. Magic Lantern Slides. Stereoscopic Views. Albums of Views. Comic Sketches of Irish Life and Character. W. LAWRENCE, Photographic Publisher, 5, 6, 7 UPPER SACKVILLE STREET, DUBLIN, The only Complete Series of Photographic Views Fublished in Ireland. Copies may he had from the principal Booksellers, Stationers, and Fancy Warehouses throughout Ireland.

CONTENTS. PAGE Chapter I.— Rebel Wexford; Past and Present ._ ... I „ II.— Stories of the Old Bridge of Wexford ... ... II „ III. — In the land of the West — Galway ... ... 20 ,, IV. — Through the town of Galway ... ... 38 „ V. — Lismore and neighbourhood ._ ... ... 56 „ VI.— Wexford— Selskar Abbey ._ ... ... 72 „ VII.— Wexford— The Bull Ring .. ... ... 82 „ VIII. — Lismore and neighbourhood — Mount Mellary ... 91 „ IX. — Youghal and vicinity ... ... ... 106 „ X. — Connemara „ ... ... ... 116 „ XI.— The Joyce Country... ._ ... ... 127, „ XII.— Clifden and vicinity... ... ... „ 138 „ XIII. — Farther Connemara ... ... ... 152 „ XIV.— The Irish Highlands ... 164 „ XV. — Clew Bay, and Croagh Patrick ._ ... 179 „ XVI.— Rebel Wexford „ .„ .„ ... 19* „ XVII.— Old Limerick .„ .. ._ ... 204 „ XVIII.— By Shannon's Banks ... ._ 't. 214 „ XIX.— The City of the Violated Treaty ._ .„ 236 u XX.— Sarsfield's ride — the Women of Limerick — the " Black Battery "—relics of the Siege ... 267 „ XXI.— The Violated Treaty— the old house at Singland 276 „ XXII. — Legends of Singland _ _ &mt jfoutfjmt mt&OTestmt latlfoag The direct Route to — KILLARNEY, GLENGARRIFF, CORK, QUEENS- TOWN, LISMORE, RIVER BLACKWATER (the Irish Rhine), LIMERICK, RIVER SHANNON, CLONMACNOISE, SEVEN CHURCHES, ROCK OF CASHEL, KILKENNY, KILKEE, MILTOWNMALBAY, LISnOONVARNA, &c. Reduced Tourist Fares to KILLARNEY and back, .f-iroim: -A-ll st-A-tioists.

Chapter II. Stories Of The Old Bridge Of Wexford

ITTING here on the crumbling stone wall at Ferry Bank, we will once more connect these broken buttresses of the Old Bridge of Wexford and see it again span the Slaney from Ferry Bank to Wexford Quay ; we will watch the river flowing swiftly beneath its many arches, and recall a few of the tragic acts of the Insurrection of '98 of which this bridge was the scene. Many of these stories come to my mind just as they were told me by the narrators, who were themselves near relatives of the principal actors in the events de scribed, but the facts are to be found in the authentic histories of the writers I have before named — Cloney, Hay, Teeling, Rev. Mr. Gordon, &c. — men who were witnesses of or took part in most of the scenes they describe. "It was the end of May, in the year '98, not many days after the beginning of the Insurrection," said the story-teller, "and the ' Rebels' (as the English call every people who defend their hearths and homes from them), after defeating the King's troops at the battle of Oulart, at Enniscorthy, at the Forth Mountain, were in possession of Wexford, from which, at the approach of the victorious Irish, the British soldiers, the yeomen, and most of the magistrates had fled like cowards, scared at the thought of the awful revenge they expected must fall on them from the men now in power, whose fathers, brothers, mothers, helpless children, had long suffered under the yoke of the oppressors.

The object of the fugitive Wexford garrison was to reach Duncannon Fort, where a strong English force was stationed ; the regular road to Duncannon was in possession of the insurgents, encamped on the Three Rock Mountain, so that the only way open to those flying from the town was through the baronies of Forth and Bargy, whose inhabitants —quiet, inoffensive fishermen and farmers — had not taken up arms or in any way identified themselves with the Insurrection. But that proved no protection to them. As the troops hurried through village after village, or past isolated farmsteads, the soldiers wantonly set fire to the dwellings of the peasantry, pillaged the homesteads, burned Catholic churches, and murdered every straggler who came in their way, not even sparing women or infants. The infuriated peasantry retaliated on the laggards who, separated from the main body, fell into their hands, bu t no woman — some of the soldiers' wives had been separated from their husbands during the hurried march — was wilfully injured ; while children who had been left behind, or in the confusion had been lost by their parents, were taken pity on and adopted by some farmers, reared in their own families, and lived to old age amongst the people, into whose hearts it could never enter to visit the crimes of the parents on the children.

Wexford was now occupied by the Irish. A proclamation had been issued by their leaders forbidding, under pain of death, the commission of pillage or outrage on person or property. But as the terrified country people sought refuge in the city, and told of the ruthless acts that had been committed by the yeomanry and military in their flight, the indignation caused by such unprovoked cruelty was general, the passions of the people became greatly excited, and perhaps it is scarce to be wondered at if the most lawless amongst them wished for revenge. An opportunity but too soon came. The following lamentable occurrence took place on the 20th June, while the insurgent forces were away at a place called Long-Graigue — half-way between Wexford and New Ross — where for four hours they fought a well-contested battle with the King's troops under General Sir John Moore.

Taking advantage of the absence of the Insurgent army and of most of the leaders, a mob of brutal wretches — camp followers and others broke loose from all restraint, and determined to wreak vengeance for the wrongs and sufferings of the people on some gentlemen, traders and farmers, who, to the number of thirty-six, were confined in Wexford Jail. In vain Mr. Harvey and the principal inhabitants endeavoured to restore order ; in vain they threatened, entreated ; the mob — incited by a few persons who first plied them with drink until their passions were inflamed, and then harangued them and urged them to avenge the sufferings of the people — broke open the jail, brought out the persons confined there, hurried them to the Bridge, and the work of retaliation was begun, though not, be it remembered, by the infliction of shocking tortures such as their own flesh and blood had suffered, not by pitch-caps —the lash— the fire— the slow agony.

In the fury of their vengeance the mob murdered their unfortunate prisoners by driving their pikes through their victims' hearts, and then flung the bodies from the planka into the water below. STORIES OP THE OLD BRIDGE OF WEXFORD. 13 Several persons had already been thus put to death when a priest, bareheaded, and accompanied by a wounded youth, rushed through the rabble, threw himself upon his knees in front of the doomed men, and, baring his breast to the pikes, declared that if the murderers did not desist the weapons should reach their victims through his heart. His breast exposed, his arms outstretched, Father Corrin prayed, implored, besought his people to pause in their unholy work; to remember that theirs was a just and a holy cause that should not be sullied by any act of unnecessary violence ; that they came not of a race that delighted in the wanton shedding of blood, in the making of widows and orphans, but of a race to whose nature it had ever been foreign basely to avenge their wrongs on a defenceless foe, no matter what had been his crime.

Tears streaming from his eyes, the priest reminded his hearers that they were Christians, whose Lord Himself, even in His agony, forgave and prayed for His murderers ; and he ceased not his entreaties until the hearts of those he addressed were softened and touched, the self-appointed executioners loosed their victims, and, at the bidding of the holy priest, the Bridge of Wexford was made the scene of a noble victory, the victory of gentle Mercy over the wild passion of revenge — a revenge that, if ever such a crime could be justified, was justifiable. "I should know the story well," concluded my informant, "for that priest was my own grand-uncle. Look across to the town. There, right in the centre, is a square turret, and, close by, a group of trees. That is the Franciscan Convent, where Father Corrin lived, so gentle a man and so holy of life that he was lookedmpon as a saint by all.

Those trees mark the spot where formerly siood one, a great chestnut, planted by the good man, and known as ' Father Corrin's tree.' Like so many of the Franciscans, he was a great scholar, and for his gentleness and kindness he was particularly loved by little children; long after the good priest's death his tree was sacred to them ; they supposed that each leaf bore a special charm, well known to every schoolboy and schoolgirl in the town , and often and often in my young days, as I ran to school, I hurried in to the chapel-yard to pluck a leaf from Father Corrin's tree, that I might be sure to know my lessons on that day." The next scene that starts up before me on the Old Bridge is a vivid ind terrible picture, many a time painted for me in striking words by the niece of one of the victims in the drama acted a short time after that last described — its pendant, but far more awful event, for now Mercy has no place in the scene.

The lady who related the next story — that of her uncle's tragic fate —was of an old and honourable family in the county Wexford, the Colcloughs of Tintern Abbey. She was very old, not far from ninety, but brisk, bright, active, and as dear and acute of intellect as a young person. Small and dark, one would think her descended from the old Firbolg race rather than from the Norman, and she had considerably more than a due share of what are said to be the national virtues and failings. Impulsive and hotly passionate, she was equally generous, and while it was next to impossible for anyone constituted in the least degree after our national pattern to get along in daily life with the irascible old lady without sharp collisions occurring now and then, so it was equally impossible — both sides having hotly and candidly said their say — to keep up the smallest ill-will.

One generous word from either side brought two from the adversary, and then the dame's generous heart burned within her until, had she been the aggressor, she made some amends. » The old lady was, as I have said, brisk and active in mind and body ; she was also a passionate Irishwoman, keeping herself well informed on all political questions of the day, but, best of all, loving to talk of the Ireland of the past; and of it she talked well and intelligently, using in many words the obsolete pronunciation of nearly a century ago, the peculiarity giving a sort of cachet to her speech. In manners and ideas she was well-bred and high-minded, and her partiality for the sopiety of the young — "when they are refined, my dear," — was such as is of .5m seen in old people who have retained their own youthfulness of heart , and as she told of bygone days the fire of youth seemed to kindle again in her eyes ; all that was best and brightest in her nature came uppermost, anc at such times she was a charming companion.

The character of this lady of ihe olden times was thus summed up by the maid (from the banks of the Boro) who waited on her — "Sure, an' if she murdered you, you couldn't but like her." Everyone knows how the bravely-fought but premature and unorganised Insurrection of '98 ended. At its close, when the unfortunate peasantry had laid down their arms, and such of them as had homes les t returned to their families, the leaders, both Catholic and Protestant, in particular those of the landed gentry who had property which their enemies hungered to confiscate to theii own use, were seized, brought to a hasty trial, and ordered to be executed; though in many cases it was proved that the con demned gentlemen had been forced by the people to appear amongst them, and had frequently and successfully used their utmost influence in saving the lives even of their persecutors— of many of those who now appeared against them.

The Rebel leaders were tried by a mockery of a courtmartial composed of the most pitiless of their enemies, and it was a notorious fact that, as a sort of quibble with their dainty consciences, the members of the courtmartial "took special care to avoid being sworn, as they should have been, ' to administer justice according to the STORIES OF THE OLD BRIDGE OF WEXFORD. 15 evidence.'" From this semblance of a trial the unhappy patriots were hurried to execution, dragged through the streets of Wexford, exposed on the way to every indignity the brutal yeomanry, soldiers, and the creatures of the Orange Ascendancy could devise to add to the sufferings of those before whom they had so lately fled in abject terror. On the Bridge the gallows were erected, and there, day after day, the most revolting sights were witnessed, and day after day the most cruel and debasing deaths inflicted upon men whose sole crime was that they had defended their country and had fought in self-defence.

Even the dead bodies were made objects upon which to wreak a miserable hatred, so that when the sufferers could no longer feel the agonies of death, the loving relatives who drew near to try and gain a last look would still be tortured by the sight of indignities offered to the remains of their kindred. When the sentence of the courtmartial had been carried out by the hanging of the condemned, the bodies were taken down, the heads cut off, the remains subjected to every insult by the rabble of yeomanry and soldiers, and were finally flung into the tide. At night the heart rending scenes of each day were renewed as mothers, wives, and children sought along the river's bank or by the seashore for the mutilated bodies, that they might give them Christian burial. Amongst the many gentlemen of stainless character and of high family who were thus murdered on the 28th June, 1798, was John Henry Colclough, of Ballyteague, a gentle, humane man, who had not actually borne arms in the Insurrection, but, on the contrary, had been employed as mediator between the English garrison of Wexford and the Irish forces encamped on Vinegar Hill, and who, moreover, had used all his influence to protect the lives and property of his fellow-Protestants during the short time the insurgents were in power.

But John Colclough was one of a family remarkable not only for high honour and a love of justice, but for sympathy with the people and a tender regard for the poor, and he had properly that could be confiscated, so he was hunted as a rebel, seized in a cavern on one of the Saltee Islands — where he had taken refuge with his wife and child — carried to Wexford, and hanged on that blood -washed Bridge. His head was flung into the Slaney, but, contrary to the usual custom, his wife was permitted to convey away the body for interment. On the hillside, in the centre of the town, and not far from the Convent where Father Corrin rests, we can discern the beautiful ruin of St. Patrick's Church. Just below the chancel window, behind where the high altar once stood, is a large stone monument, and there, in the family tomb of a friend, a last hospitality waB extended to the headless body of John Henry Colclough.

Search was made in vain for the head at the time of execution, but about forty years ago a gentleman living at Ferry Bank found in a drain a skull which circumstances led many to conclude was that of John Colclough. The skull was not interred, but is, I am told, now in the Kildare-street Museum in Dublin. In the story of Father Corrin mention has been made of a gentleman named Esmonde Kyan, who also successfully pleaded, on that memorable 20th June, for the lives of the Protestants about to be murdered by the drunken and infuriated mob. The reward Esmonde Kyan received for his humanity, for exposing his life to save those of his enemies, is related by General Thomas Cloney in his "Personal Narrative of the Transactions in the County Wexford, in which the Author was engaged during the awful period of 1798."

Of Mr. Kyan, Cloney says: — "This gentleman, who ranked far above the plebeian aristocracy of the county Wexford in family and re spectability, was influenced by motives of humanity alone to accept the command of an Insurgent corps, as he saw that the people had no alternative but to measure swords in a field of battle with their cruel persecutors, or wait to be butchered by them in their humble dwellings. He was courageous to desperation, and at the battle of Arklow received a gunshot wound in his shoulder while leading his pikemen to an attack on the British artillery. . . . Mr. Kyan's friends procured him a lodging in the suburbs of Wexford, where he was confined to his bed, scarcely hoping to recover, when, on the memorable 20th of June, a person rushed into his lodgings and cried out ' that the mob was going to murder all the Protestant prisoners !' Such a horrible communication operated on his kind nature like an electric shock ; he started from his sick bed, flung his garments loosely on his person, and ran, or rather tottered, to the fatal Bridge, where, in conjunction with the Rev. Mr. Corrin (who was a long time on his knees with uplifted hands praying for mercy for the prisoners), he saved the lives of several who had been marked out for slaughter by a gang of the very lowest desperadoes. . . .

In the treaty of peace which was concluded between Generals Fitzgerald and Aylmer and General Dundas in the county Kildare, Esmonde Kyan's personal safety and permission to emigrate were guaranteed by the British General. "Relying on the faith of this treaty, he was proceeding to his home in the county Wexford when he was arrested, brought to trial, convicted of being a rebel officer, and ordered for execution the day after his con viction. It was in vain that he pleaded General Dundas's official stipula tion, and required time to give satisfactory proof of it. Equally in vain was it for him to remind his judges that he had saved some valuable STORIES OF THE OLD BRIDGE OF WEXFORD. 17 lives in Wexford. The wretches who tried him would neither grant him time for an official disclosure of what he stated, nor would they acknow ledge that his humanity merited the slightest recompense."

Esmonde Kyan suffered the same fate as John Colclough and his companions in misfortune. Scene after scene passes before us on that ghastly Bridge. Here is another victim, a youth named John Kelly, of Killan, ' 'as brave an Irishman as ever trod the battlefield." Dangerously wounded, lying ill in Wexford, and nursed by his young sister, he is tracked to his lodgings, torn from his bed, carried on a cart, amidst the taunts and jeers of his tormentors, to the place of execution, and — oh ! ingratitude of human nature ! — his life having been sworn away by one whom he himself had saved from death — is hanged and beheaded. Then, in the refinement of cruelty, the rabble of mercenaries enjoy the sport of rolling the head along the streets to the house Kelly had occupied, where it is flung high into the air, that the young soldier's sister may be horrified by the ghastly sight.

The days of '98 passed away. The Irish had been once more de cimated, impoverished, and exiled; the property of the wealthy amongst them for the most part attainted or destroyed, and few but the very poorest and humblest left to till the soil, hew wood, and draw water for the strangers, again in power— for a time. With the change come other scenes on Wexford Bridge — scenes in strange contrast with those just described, but more in tone with the sunlit view around us to-day. There is an interesting volume, "Chronicles of Wexford," in which the compiler, Mr. George Griffiths, Editor of the "County Wexford Almanac," while making no mention of the sad historical memories of the place, chats right pleasantly of how, in the years following the Rebellion, "Our grandfathers were not so puritanical in their notions as we are at the present day ;' ' and so, of a Sunday evening, the military bands played on the Bridge, now become the fashionable parade of the city, where the beaux and belles promenaded in all the bravery of gorgeous regimentals, fine suits, and ladies' gayest frippery.

The Chronicles further tell how, in the year Anno Domini 1807, "whilst the Tyrone Militia lay in Wexford, the party who then farmed the Bridge tolls, from some cause to us unknown, resolved to charge tollage for the bandsmen ;' ' how the indignant commanding officer withdrew the band to the ' ' Green Walks" outside the city; the fair ladies followed the regimentals, the city and county beaux followed the ladies, and the Bridge was deserted. All very fine for summer, but green lanes — romantic and sweet in the warm sunshine— grow damp and muddy as autumn advances, and in a poetical petition, twenty-three stanzas long, the fair of Wexford detail to the military commander their woes, their regrets for the promenade on their favourite Bridge, where — " All attired in virgin white, Each widow, wife, and maid Glanc'd round their eyes in fond delight At every gay cockade. ' ' The Graces, the Paphian Court, Venus, Love, the Hygeian Well, and Clythia having got mixed with the petition, Common Sense steps in and says : — " But, ah, our thin and slender clothes The dirty road ill suits ; The dust quite soils our silken hose, And spoils our nankeen boots."

But when the ladies pray — " When in Hymen's holy band You join some happy she, Oh ! may the nymph that gains thy hand Young, rich, and handsome be," the soldier's heart is melted, so are those of the toll farmers, and once more we can picture the Bridge enlivened by the throng passing and re passing below us in the sunshine; the gay groups of ladies in "virgin white," relieved, no doubt, by cherry ribands, waving plumes, and bright scarves, the silken hose and nankeen boots unspotted by dust, tripping along more in time to the music of the band than to the tread of the scarlet-coated and gold-laced officers or of the well-dressed county beaux beside them. Gay, bright scenes and pleasant days they were for those in power, but for the Irish they were the penal times. Passing one day by this place with an old gentleman, and talking of the memories that cling round the Bridge, my friend said : — "Those were days when it was hard for a man to hold up his head or to bear the yoke.

My grandfather, a wealthy merchant — no Papist could then enter a learned profession — was one day standing just here, listening to the band, when a common fellow, a cobbler, came up and insolently ordered him to ' quit the spot — no Papist had a right to be there!'" But the Old Bridge of Wexford has vanished ; nothing of it remains but these broken stones and the historic memories that are kept alive by the Wexford people and by Irish men and women at home and abroad. A new bridge now crosses the Slaney about a quarter of a mile above the town, while, just as it was in bygone days, a ferryman now takes us over STORIES OF THE OLD BRIDGE OF WEXFORD. ;o the town in his little boat ; a good-tempered, cheerful ferryman, who says there is plenty of room, plenty and to spare, for the many passengers, all women, who have by this time gathered at Ferry Bank.

We embark on the adventurous voyage, and the helm is entrusted to a blonde and buxom girl, dressed in a gown of that high art muslin usually hung in windows. There are three old ladies who have been out enjoying the sea air and the sunshine ; three more who have been a long while loitering above the ferry steps, and so many others that the little boat is down unpleasantly low in the water. One of the old ladies looks nervous, but says nothing — a second whispers in my ear, "I always say my prayers in such times of danger;" the third old lady declares that she has crossed so often she feels quite at home on a sea voyage, and the girl in art muslin gets quite huffed over our laughter at her altercations with the ferryman, who persists in directing her to steer: "Larboard, miss — larboard, or you'll drownd us."

Chapter III. In

"THE LAND OF THE WEST.' Will you come to the West, love I Oh ! come there with me, 'Tis the land of my sires, And it springs from the sea. The South has its charms Of bright skies and blue, But naught is more dear Than the West's changing huej Half sunshine, half tears, Like the girl I love best — Oh ! what is the South To the beautiful West. Then come there, oh! come there with me, 'Tis the land of sweet verdure, and it springs from the sea. Old Song. GALWAY — THE VIRTUES OF BLARNEY TWEED — THE STONE COUNTRY — THE CITY OF THE TRIBES — THE o'S AND THE MACS — "CONATION ROME" — SCENE IN 1658 — DESOLATE GALWAY — GALWAY OF TO DAY — COSTUMES OF THE PEASANTRY — VIEW FROM WEST BRIDGE. ANY people think nothing is needed for travelling but time and money. Certainly, those two things are very necessary to enable us to travel over the ground ; but they only go so far and no farther.

To really see and know a I country and the people who give it character, and derive character from it, something else is wanting, and that something is sympathy — a broad sympathy that not alone feels all that is good and lovely in the scenes our money ■ will enable us to view — and no thanks to anyone — but that will also open for us a way to the Hearts of the people amongst whom we are thrown ; a sympathy that will quickly change the jarvey into the man with his own human feelings and characteristic ideas — the man who has another life quite apart from his calling; a sympathy that will change into kindly fellow-beings the farmer or his wife, the business man with whom we have a casual dealing, the OALWAT. stranger going the same route, the very labourer on the roadside who straightens his back for a moment from over his weary task to reply to a question — each one, high and low, ready, eager to help us and give us a pleasant lift on the way, and all from the simple, electric touch of that invisible power without which there is very little use in journeying iu any country, but no use at all in so spending money in Ireland.

With this invisible power — nothing more nor less than the tiue politeness of a kind heart — a shilling will procure you as much pleasure as — aye, and more than — a pound without it. There is small need of reminding the liii_h — the real old stock — of this, for it comes as natural to them as the flowers to May ; but most ■strangers are a little slow, a little timid, about the real way to approach the people, to make use of the quality which they mistakenly call "blarney." And there's where the mistake lies. The Irish see in the twinkling of an eye if the heartily genial or gently kind manner comes from the heart, or is only "the blarney" as misunderstood, and they espond accordingly. Ah ! many a time I have seen a poor man or woman turn, the eyes full of tears, to do some little kindly act in gratitude for only a word or look they knew was sincere, while the same man or woman five minutes before had replied with banter, covert irony, and, perhaps, a secret "I'll make you pay for your impudence, my tine gentleman," iu answer to what was intended for a fine free-and-easy, rollicking address, with a good mixture of native "blarney" aud foreign condescension in it.